


The Truth Will Set You Free.

by Michaelssw0rd



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, Hurt John, John Reese Whump, Love Confessions, M/M, Truth Serum
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:15:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24626863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Michaelssw0rd/pseuds/Michaelssw0rd
Summary: John is captured while following a Number. After failing the conventional methods of interrogation, his captors decide to use an experimental drug designed to be a truth serum on him.In a desperate bid to keep Harold's identity secret, John decides to share secrets that were deeper and much closer to his heart.
Relationships: Harold Finch/John Reese
Comments: 44
Kudos: 189
Collections: Exchange of Interest 2020





	The Truth Will Set You Free.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [andthekitchensink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/andthekitchensink/gifts).



> I owe a well of gratitude to my beta and cheerleader. You know who you are <3\. Thank you for all the encouragement to get me through the finish line.

For the third time that year, John found himself bound to a chair and being roughed up by a couple of hired professionals. It was getting kind of embarrassing, if John were to be completely honest.

To make matters worse, John was wearing a new suit today. Harold was going to be furious with him for ruining it. John had seen Harold eye it appreciatively this morning, over donuts and tea and reading up on their new number: Richard Makeson, owner of Neurotropic Pharmaceuticals. After an hour of torture now, the impractically high thread count fabric was now stained with John’s blood in multiple places and was irredeemably rumpled and torn from others.

He thought about complaining to his interrogators about their careless behavior, but they chose that exact moment to punch him in the face.

“Who do you work for?” The taller of the two hovered over him ominously, holding a knife that he had used only sparingly until now. The gesture was intended to convey that he was about ready to use it with more frequency.

“I told you.” John couldn’t keep the quiet amusement out of his voice. He knew it always made his interrogators more furious, but it always crept into his tone whenever the would-be-professionals pretended to be bigger and badder than they could ever possibly be. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I am just a concerned civilian.”

“Bullshit.” The other, stouter, torturer spit out. “You were tailing Mr. Makeson. We need to know why, and on whose orders?”

“Can’t I just be a fan?” John smiled. He knew there was blood in his mouth as he bared his teeth.

In response, he got punched in the gut. John bit his lip to swallow the small cry of pain.

“Tell us who sent you after Mr. Makeson, or do you want a repeat of that?”

“Actually, that might help,” John said, moving past the pain. “I think that last punch moved my organs where they don’t belong. Another one might, you know, reshuffle things.”

The next punch, even John could admit, he kind of deserved. He doubled over as much as he could in his restraints and failed to stifle his cry this time. After a moment, he did look up and smiled at the interrogators.

“Thank you.”

The look of fury on their faces should’ve scared him. There was something seriously messed up in his brain that it just gave him an amused sort of satisfaction.

“That’s it. I have officially lost my patience.” The one brandishing a knife moved towards him menacingly. “I will cut the answers out of you.”

His expressions and body language told John that he was completely serious about that threat. John braced himself for the attack.

Right before the scene got a lot bloodier than it was, the only door to the room where John was held opened and a third person stepped in. He looked much the same as the other two, and John could bet he was one of them, probably on guard duty.

He approached the knife-guy and handed him a bag. “Boss has been watching,” he said, looking fleetingly at John. As John had suspected, there were cameras here. “Says he won’t talk. Not without some… intervention.”

“I can make him talk.” The tall one sounded affronted. “I can break him.”

“He don’t want him broken. He want answers. Faster the better. He got big plans today.” The new guy shrugged. “Said to use the drug.” With a nod, he left… probably to stand guard at the door again.

_ Drug _ .

That raised John’s hackles. For the first time since he woke up in this chair… John felt a thread of fear.

The two guys exchanged a look, and then smiled. “Well,” the stouter one said, “Now it gets interesting. Let’s see how much lip you can give us with  _ this  _ in your system.”

With rising dread, John watched the man take out a vial and a syringe from the bag. If it was what he suspected, John was in serious trouble.

During their research, they had found that Neurotropic Pharma had been working on multiple novelty drugs, many of them mind altering. They were a _neuro_ pharmaceutical after all; they were licensed to do so. Their license, however, could not explain the emails exchanged between Richard Makeson and his potential buyers about what he had been casually—and unoriginally—calling _Truth_ _Serum._ Those, John knew from his previous encounters, were most definitely not FDA approved and were also banned by all humane laws.

Then again, torture was not endorsed by any humane laws either.

John’s expressions must’ve given his trepidation away, because the man filling the syringe spoke to him with unbridled glee. “I see you know what this is.” John shook his head, not so much as an answer to the question but as a negation to accept that he was in this situation at all. “Let me explain it to you again anyway. It will be my absolute pleasure.”

He brought the syringe with a pale yellow liquid in it in front of John’s eyes. “This,” he said. “This will make you  _ talk _ .”

John swallowed around the fear in his throat.  _ Harold would come to get him _ , he reminded himself. After all these years, after all the times Harold had come to rescue him despite John’s fervent protests, John had even stopped hoping that Harold would do the saner thing and stay away. He knew Harold was looking for him and would get him out of here as soon as he could. John just had to hang in there until then.

For the first time since he woke up here, John wished Harold would hurry up. Until now, the only thing in danger was John’s life. Now, Harold’s privacy was threatened.

When one of the men rolled up John’s sleeve, John thrashed. It took the man by surprise, making him stumble a step back. Then he came forward again with sadistic satisfaction in his eyes. “Finally.” He rolled John's sleeve, motioning the other one to come jab the needle in his vein. “It’s nice to see you struggle, even though it will be short lived, and in vain.”

John took a quick note of the surroundings once again. His captors had not been experts at torture, but had been reasonably skilled at binding him securely. Even the chair he was on was bolted to the ground, so he couldn’t tip it back and buy himself some time.

He was truly trapped, and about to be injected with a drug that will make him more of a liability for Harold than he had ever been before. For a moment, John wished they had shot him rather than captured him.

Then, right when they were about to press the needle into his arm, John took a deep breath.  _ Focus,  _ John reprimanded himself,  _ you have been trained for this. You have been through this before. _ Panic would do him no good at this moment. He needed to focus, for the last few minutes while he still could.

John would spill secrets. Of that, he had no doubt. This was a novelty drug, possibly more potent than the ones CIA trained them with, the one used on him the one time when he got caught in enemy territory. Even in those instances, John had spoken the truths he had never wanted to even remember; given away more than he ever would under any form of physical torture. That was inevitable. John didn’t have the choice of keeping his secrets once the drug was in his system.

But John could choose  _ which _ secrets to give up… the closer to his heart, the better.

He felt the needle prick his skin and felt the strange burning and tingling sensation shoot up his arm. He sat still, his eyes closed, not thinking about the expectant, joyous faces of his captors.

Instead, he thought about Harold’s smile: the lopsided little raise of the edge of his lip when it took him by surprise, and the full force grin that he sometimes displayed in the rare moments of pure joy. He thought about Harold’s eyes, big and blue, full of compassion and pain and sometimes, when he was truly enraged, barely hidden menace. He focused his mind on Harold’s hands, the competent way they tapped the keyboard, unravelling the world’s mysteries with their dexterity; he let his mind picture them the way it did in his hidden private moments: on John’s skin, competently unravelling him.

There, in that private moment of Harold’s smile, his secretive eyes, and his hands caressing every part of John they could reach, John let his mind stay.

After what could’ve been a few seconds, or a few hours—John had lost any sense of time—someone spoke from outside John’s bubble, muffled and far away.

“Look at him. He is fucking  _ smiling _ .”

“That’s actually a good thing. He is truly under the influence now.”

“Yeah… let’s find out.”

John felt someone shake his shoulders. He refused to budge, to leave where his mind had taken him. But then, someone slapped him on his face… hard.

He opened his eyes to the hazy image of his interrogators looming over him. His lip tugged a little, a smile that he was sure looked more Harold’s than his own.

“Tell us who you’re working for,” one of them asked.

The smile became a full-on grin as John thought about it, about who he was working for. About the person who had given him a job, and more importantly, a  _ purpose. _

“He’s so beautiful,” John said, half sigh and half awe. “Sometimes it’s hard to look at him because I worry I will be blinded by his light, but it’s even harder to look away. He is so…” John thought again about Harold’s frown, his raised eyebrows of consternation, his fake annoyance when John teased him. “… so beautiful.”

* * *

They asked him dozens of questions. John answered all of them truthfully. The drugs wouldn’t let him lie. He was stripped of even the power to temper his thoughts, to remember even the concept of lying.

The only thing he knew was how to tell the truths he had kept secret since the day he started working this new job.

“Where does he live,” they asked.

Image of the library came into his mind, the quiet comfort of it. The smell of the books, the stuffy air, the relentless sound of tapping on a keyboard. It was easy to answer. “Home,” he said. “He lives at home. I have never had a place I can call home before, do you know that? I have had houses and hotels and motels and bunkers. But where he lives… that’s home.”

“What does your employer do?”

“He helps people.” John’s voice became proud. Harold was truly one of the only good people he knew. “He is good. I know that sounds strange. This world doesn’t really have good people. I thought so too. But he is the exception. He made some mistakes in the past, sure. But who hasn’t. Now, all he wants to do is to help. To  _ do _ good.”

Frustration, John could see it on their faces after a few questions. John couldn’t understand why. He was telling them the most important things in his life.

“What is his name?”

John smiled. “I wish I could tell you. I wish I knew. He has many names, he sheds them like snakeskin. Or bird skin. Do birds even shed skin? Like bird feathers! I don’t think he has told me his real name yet. I don’t think he ever will. But I hope he does someday. When he does, I promise I’ll tell you. Or you will hear it, when I shout it from rooftops.” John smiled at the image, and then frowned. “Or maybe I won’t. He wouldn’t like that. He is a very private person after all.”

His favorite question, by far, was when they asked, after a lot of curses and snarls, “What does he look like?”

It took him no time to bring Harold’s face into sharp focus in his mind. “His hair is so stern… just like him,” John said and then chuckled to himself. “But I think they would be soft to touch. His forehead is perfect to rest your forehead against, or your lips. Not that I’ve ever done that. Other than in my dreams. His cheeks are adorable when they are puffed up in indignation. And his lips… his lips are heaven—”

That’s when they started punching him again. Sharp, hard blows to his stomach, his jaw, his torso. John didn’t have the capacity to stifle his cries, to pretend to be unaffected. He cried out with every jab, feeling his body breaking down.

They still kept asking the questions, in between the continued torture. John kept answering, resulting in increasing frequency and strengths of the attacks.

“You fucking piece of shit, tell us who he is or I will pick the knife back up and ram it in your chest. I am sure boss would understand.”

John had told them who Harold was, in all the ways that mattered, in all the ways he had kept secret for so long. He didn’t know what else to tell them.

When a knife was held in front of him, in a way that told him it was more than a threat this time, that if he didn’t give them an answer, it would be his last few minutes on this planet, John told them the deepest, most guarded secret of them all.

“I love him.”

Over the cursing of his captors and the soothing humming in his head, John heard distant shouts and gunfire. He couldn’t focus on that though, not when his torturer kept his promise and jammed the knife into his gut.

John screamed.

The door to the room burst open at the same moment. Through the haze of pain and fog that the drug had caused, John saw Shaw enter the room. With her typical grim expressions and pursed lips as she quickly took a bearing of the position in the room, cursing loudly when she saw the knife in John’s stomach.

The last thing he remembered was Shaw rushing towards him, just before sweet painless darkness engulfed his senses.

* * *

He woke up to the beeping monitors.

It happened embarrassingly too often for John to find it an alarming position. He was probably in the safe house they used when someone on the team was injured. Still, as he was trained, he felt for imminent danger before letting anyone know that he was awake. Everything in his body either ached, or was numb; his brain was both.

Then he registered that his right hand was covered by a soft, warm one—familiar one. All remaining tendrils of fear left his body as he relaxed into the bed with a sigh.

“Oh,” he heard rather than saw Harold straighten up. “You’re awake.” Then, loudly this time, he repeated. “Miss Shaw, he is awake.”

An involuntary smile spread across John’s lips. He could imagine what Harold looked like from the way he sounded: half indignant at John’s carelessness, half relieved, and completely and utterly beautiful. Not wanting to just imagine it any longer, John opened his eyes.

There he was, just like he had pictured, except even more beautiful.

Quick footsteps approached him; Shaw came closer and asked him something, looking at the monitors. He ignored it in the favor of turning his hand and gripping Harold’s hand that was resting on it. There was a look of surprise on Harold’s face and he made a halfhearted attempt to pull it back. John held firm, tracing caressing circles on the back of Harold’s hand with his thumb.

To Harold’s widened eyes and his slightly parted lips, John spoke softly, “I have wanted to do that for a long time.”

Harold jerked his hand back. “Are you alright, Mr. Reese?” Then, without waiting for his answer, he turned towards Shaw. “Is he okay?”

John didn’t have enough strength to bat Shaw’s hands away as she came into his personal space and shone a torch in his eyes. After a few moments of checking him over, Shaw turned towards Harold and told him what John could’ve said himself if he had been given a chance.

“He’s okay,” she said, mock-glaring at John. Her expressions were too soft to pull it off. “You’re welcome for that, by the way. Try  _ not  _ getting knifed in the gut the next time. It’s always so messy.”

“Thank you, Shaw.” John smiled at her in gratitude. She looked taken aback and slightly queasy. “Your surgical skills are admirable and I have always been impressed by them. And by your skills with a gun, of course.”

Shaw took the compliment in her typical style. She grumbled, hid a smile, and muttered, “Shut up.”

“Your bedside manner, though, leaves much to be desired.” John added.

“You say he’s okay, then why…” Harold looked at John and Shaw with confusion and concern.

“Yeah. That.” Shaw grimaced. “The experimental drug they dosed him with has a longer half-life that I expected.”

“Oh.” Harold’s expressions flashed to anger for a moment, before dissolving into chagrin. “Mr. Reese, I am afraid you are still under the influence of a mind altering drug; it would be prudent for you to refrain from saying anything until you are better in control of your faculties.”

“It was a truth serum, Harold.” The name tasted like a caress on his tongue, so he repeated it. “Harold,” he said, with a smile, before continuing. “Not some mind altering drug.”

Shaw looked between the two of them, considering. Then, John muttered Harold’s name again, addicted to the feeling of it on his tongue. Shaw muttered something under her breath, and then walked out of the room. Harold watched her leave with something like chagrin on his face, then turned back towards John.

“Still, it strips you of the ability to maintain your privacy.”

“There are, at any given time, at least two bugs on me. And multiple microphones and cameras in my apartment. If I wanted privacy from you, do you think I would allow that?”

Harold, for his part, looked ashamed. “I am sorry, Mr. Reese. I will try to be more mindful from—”

John shook his head, interrupting him. “That’s not what I meant. What I mean is… I don’t want to keep anything from you. The truth serum… it doesn’t change anything. You already know everything about me. Well, almost everything. I have been keeping one thing from you. I thought it was in poor taste to make you aware. I am your employee after all, however untraditional.” John’s voice took on a melancholic note. “Still, I don’t want to keep it from you any longer.”

He looked at Harold’s face, at the beloved lines around his eyes and the creases on his forehead. With a deep inhale, he steeled himself, “Harold, I—”

“No, John!” Harold interrupted him sharply, holding up his hand.

John closed his eyes, unable to help the way his face crumpled at the rejection. “I’m sorry,” John whispered, unable to trust his voice to not break.

“Oh dear heavens! No. Not like that.” Harold sounded flustered. A moment later, John felt his hand being held between both of Harold’s. “John…” he called, but John just shook his head, not opening his eyes. “John, my dear, please look at me.”

The endearment made it difficult for John to resist. Warily, he looked at Harold. The expressions on his face made John’s breath catch. Before John could speak, Harold explained.

“I want to hear what you want to say. I very much do. Just… not like this. Not when...”

“Not when I am under the influence of a mind altering drug?” John repeated Harold’s words back at him, the hurt in his throat fading away a little, a smile appearing on his lips.

“Exactly.” Harold smiled back at him.

“You are breathtaking when you smile,” John told him, staring at his upturned lips. “Even when you don’t, if I am being honest. And apparently, at this moment, I can’t be anything but. You are breathtaking. Always. Also the way you say that…  _ Always _ . It grounds me. More than anything else ever did. Did I ever tell you that?”

“Mr. Reese,” Harold gently interrupted him when he paused for breath, squeezing his hand.

“Oh right. Not yet.” John nodded, then yawned. “After I wake up, then?” he looked at Harold, his blinks becoming longer and longer.

“After you wake up.” Harold promised.

Between one blink and the next, John fell asleep, ensconced by the warmth of Harold’s hand and words.

* * *

Next time he woke up to a blessedly clear head, and Shaw fiddling with the lines connected to his torso. When she noticed he was awake, she proceeded to do a whole post-op check on him as a  _ good morning _ . After she was done checking his wound and shining lights in his eyes, she pulled back.

“Are you still feeling the urge to tell me how much you admire me?”

“Get lost, Shaw.”

Shaw tapped her earpiece. “He’s fine now, Finch,” she said and then slapped John on his shoulder, ignoring his wince. “Welcome back. You really fucked up this time.”

“Thanks.” John gave her a withering glare that she ignored.

“Call me if you’re in pain, or having difficulty passing gas. Until then, as Finch would say, the numbers don’t wait for people getting drugged and stabbed,” she said cheerily, while walking out of the makeshift hospital room. At the door, she stopped and repeated. “I am serious about the passing gas part. It could mean intestinal obstruction, which can be a complication of your injury.”

“I think I got it, Shaw.” John spoke through gritted teeth, wishing she would just stop talking. Even more so when he saw Harold at the door.

“Don’t worry Miss Shaw,” Harold spoke up, entering as she left. “We will keep you apprised of Mr. Reese’s bowel habits.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” Shaw called out, laughter evident in her voice.

Harold smiled at the door, before turning around and looking at John. His smile grew wider and fonder.

“I see you’re feeling better, Mr. Reese.”

John slowly pushed himself upwards and backwards, until he was sitting with the support of the headboard. “I am,” he said. “I got lucky. The guys knew very little about torture.”

“I am disinclined to agree,” Harold said testily. “There was a knife in your stomach when we found you.”

“Exactly. Stabbing in the stomach is not actually conducive to an interrogation. I would’ve started with the fingers.”

Harold’s face did the complicated switch from disgusted to affronted to concerned and back. He came closer and sat down next to John, glaring at him. “Mr. Reese, I think you are of the erroneous opinion that having all your organs and appendages attached to your person is somehow  _ optional. _ "

John knew what Harold meant. Still, he couldn’t help pushing just a bit more. “I don’t know Harold. I think I’ll be able to function quite alright without a finger or two. I’ve also heard the appendix is an expendable organ.”

“Mr. Reese!”

“Harold.” John smiled at him, enjoying his indignation. He knew it meant Harold  _ cared _ .

Harold sighed. “I really wish you would be more careful.”

“I am sure you do.” John teased again. Then, thinking Harold had had enough, and also being somewhat cowered by his glare, he added. “I’ll try. Although, I don’t think my carelessness is to blame for this one.”

Harold’s face fell. “I agree. The blame for this one is lies squarely on my shoulders. I didn’t expect Mr. Makeson to be so paranoid. I am sorry.”

“It wasn’t your fault either,” John said sincerely. He knew Harold wouldn’t believe him, but he had to say it anyway. . It was, as you would say, a completely disproportionate response to a little harmless tailing.”

At Harold’s sad twitch at the declaration and the—admittedly flat—joke, John changed the subject. “So, did we catch him?”

“Catch him?” Harold looked at him confused, then perked up in understanding. “Oh no. Mr. Makeson was not the perpetrator in this scenario.”

“You’re kidding.” John said in disbelief.

“No. I am not. Mr. Makeson had made a deal with the Russians about the novelty drug. It was due to be finalized the day they took you. That’s why he was extra paranoid. Turned out, he was paranoid about the wrong people. The Russians had decided to take his formula and take him out of the equation at the same time.”

“Poor bastard.” John shook his head. “So he’s safe?” John couldn’t help the distaste in his voice at the idea of the man who caught and tortured him being free and safe, but it was the job he had chosen.

“In a matter of sense,” Harold hedged.

“Harold,” John said slowly, intrigued and charmed. “What did you do?”

“Mr. Makeson might find it difficult to find new patents now that his questionable ethics and research has been exposed publicly on the internet. He is also going to be facing ethics and criminal trials for some of that. He will find that he might have gotten away with his life, but just barely. His  _ bodyguards _ ,” Harold turned his lips in distaste, “Detective Carter is handling them. Let’s say that this isn’t the first criminal charge against them.”

“Remind me never to cross you, Harold.” John couldn’t help being impressed. “Although, I admit I kind of like it when you’re all vengeful.”

“They  _ stabbed _ you, John.” Harold said, like that was all the explanation that was needed. “They breached your privacy, and then stabbed you.”

At the mention of privacy, John sobered up. “About that…” John said. “I don’t remember what I told them, Harold.”

“Mr. Reese,” Harold said, coming closer to him and settling himself in the chair beside him. “You were not in a position to filter your thoughts. You shouldn’t feel guilty about that. I have, since a long time ago, prepared for a scenario where our location and aliases might get compromised. If need be, I’ll put the plan in motion.”

“No.” John shook his head, explaining himself. “That’s not what I mean. I tried this trick they taught us in the CIA. Choose your secrets, and all that. So I don’t think I compromised us.” John hoped that was true; hoped enough to actually pray for that. The library was his  _ home _ . He didn’t want to leave it. “I don’t think… but I can’t be sure. I don’t  _ remember. _ ”

“In that case, maybe it will be a relief to you to know that your interrogation was being recorded.” Harold sounded a little wary when he told him.

John stayed quiet for a few minutes, then looked away from Harold to his bed covers, muttering a small, “Oh.” He had suspected there might’ve been cameras around, but the following torture and drugging had made him forget all about that. Being confronted with the lasting evidence of those moments was… mortifying was a word for it.

“I downloaded the data from the camera in the room, and made sure to wipe out its memory afterwards. So whatever you told them, the information won’t be useful to them anymore. And once we know the details of it, we can take appropriate steps. Until then, we are temporarily using this safe house as our… headquarter of sorts.”

John made a non-committal noise; he didn’t remember everything he said. But he remembered the decision he had made before being injected with the drug.

“Harold,” he said, after a few minutes of silence, finally daring to look back at the man. “Have you seen the footage?”

Harold shook his head. “We had been rather busy saving your life and then saving Mr. Makeson’s.”

John let out a breath of relief. Then said in a small, selfish voice. “Please don’t watch it.”

“I don’t plan to,” Harold replied, without missing a beat.

John searched his face, confused. Noticing it, Harold smiled softly; then, he reached out and took John’s hand in his own. “I have tasked Miss Shaw with perusing through them when she is done with tailing the current number. Not ideal, I agree, but the options were either her or me.”

“You didn’t want to watch them?” John didn’t know how to feel about that. Part of him was relieved, but another part of him couldn’t help but feel the sting of rejection.

“No, Mr. Reese. I did not,” Harold said, emphatically. John tried not to flinch at the words. Harold noticed his negative reaction, because he rushed to explain, rubbing his thumb in soothing circles around John’s hand the same way John had done the last time. “John, I am not interested in watching someone torture you, strip away your conscious will, and force you to admit to things you would rather keep private. That idea is rather abhorrent to me.”

The words sounded like rejection, but it was Harold’s voice, soft and warm and so full of affection, that kept John anchored in the moment. His eyes caught Harold’s and it felt like staring into his own soul.

“Harold,” he breathed, bringing his other hand to cover Harold’s.

“My dear John,” Harold said, and John remembered him calling him that when he was drugged. Tears prickled the corners of John’s eyes even as a smile tilted up his lips. “I would much rather hear it from you.”

* * *

It was early morning when Shaw entered the living room of the safe house, livid—or as livid as Shaw could look.

John felt well enough to sit on a chair, while Harold was working on something on the laptop. At Shaw’s sudden entrance, they both looked up. She looked at both of them, her eyes focusing on the way John’s hand was resting on Harold’s back, and made a face that was half amusement and half disgust.

“You want the good news, or the bad news?”

Harold looked like he was actually contemplating that question; before he could make up his mind, Shaw continued.

“The good news is, that we are safe. No need to abandon the library or our aliases.” John felt a tension he hadn’t even known he was carrying release from his shoulders. Shaw saw the movement and nodded at him, then said to Harold. “From what Reese told them, you are like Colin Firth playing James bond or something.”

Harold let out a short burst of air that could’ve been a laugh, and John suddenly couldn’t look at anywhere but the wall. When Shaw didn’t continue, Harold urged.

“I believe there was also some bad news involved?”

“Yes,” Shaw said, the disgust loud enough in her voice that John knew she must be exaggerating it. “I am taking Bear for a month.”

They both sat up straight at that comment. She didn’t give them a chance to object. “After you made me watch  _ that _ , I think I am owed,” she said.

Harold opened his mouth to say something but at Shaw’s glare, closed it again. “I suppose you’re right.”

“I damn well am,” Shaw said sternly. “And if you ever need someone to watch Reese being a lovesick puppy again… don’t call me.”

The effect of her speech was ruined by the way her lips twitched in obvious amusement in the end. She realized it too, so before it could totally ruin the moment, she turned around and walked out. They could hear her calling for bear in the corridor, followed by the sounds of shuffling and Bear’s excited barks.

Alone in the room, John found it extremely hard to look at Harold, until he felt Harold’s hand on his shoulder.

“For what it’s worth, Mr. Reese,” he said, softly and full of affection. “I think Colin Firth would make an excellent Bond.”

John couldn’t help his grin at that. “Yeah?” he said, leaning into Harold’s touch. “I know someone who would make an even better one.”

Harold chuckled. His expressions told John that he didn’t believe him. But even so, as a reward, Harold leaned closer and pressed his lips to John’s cheek.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this story, please let this writing-blocked-full-of-insecurities-writer know <3


End file.
